The Light Is White
by aphytick
Summary: Ben falls back in to old habits and Tate gets the therapy session he thinks he deserves.


Abandoned. Shacked up with a cock sucker and her little monsters. This _couldn't_ be it. Tate gripped the blade, hands sure where they once shuddered and shook, grinding his teeth. Surely now, he thought. All these years without succession. Surely. When ghastly porcelain refused to yield, he threw the blade in the sink with a clatter. He slid down the tepid tiles, fingers winding around straw coloured curls and became wracked with dry sobs.  
Tate stayed like this; bell sleeves draped over each other, bare knees against a woollen landscape until the sound of the ancient grandfather clock signalling 4pm came crawling in his ears. He was late for his appointment. Groping the walls, he hauled himself up and drifted to the door of Mr Harmon's practice. Narrowing his eyes, he strode in to the room despite himself, and lowered his body on to worn leather.  
Ben barely glance at him, sneering at his mobile phone while his fingers busied themselves with a pen ready and willing to scribble down nothing of importance. Tate coughed; a sound full of arrogance and want for attention. Nothing. He repeated the noise. Nothing.  
"I dreamt I shot your daughter with a Tec-9 last night."  
Yes, that was it.  
Ben's eyebrows shot up, eyes darting left and right across the youth's passive features.  
"She thanked me for it."  
Ben Harmon's neck craned, mouth twitching as if he wanted to speak out, but instead he turned his attention to an A5 pad and a tape recorder.  
"We're not talking about Violet, Tate. But good. What do you think the dream meant?"  
"That your daughter wants to die. Or thinks she does, anyway."  
"What do you think it meant about you."  
"You're not giving me enough labelled solutions."  
"The ones you have would work just fine if you'd take them."  
"Ah, now we're back on to Violet. I can't take those little fixer uppers beca-"  
"_Enough_. Tate, I was talking to Dr. Schoenbaum and your case is more suited to their experience. I think it would be in your best interest, and mine, if you were transferred from my care."  
Tate's nostrils flared, his eyes widening. He shot up causing the chair behind him to rock on its legs.  
"No! Mr Harmon, you can't. _I_ can't!"  
"You need to give other options a chance. You're making no progress with me, and I fully believe-"  
"I am! I am making progress. I swear I am."  
"Tate..."  
"Please."  
Ben looked at him. Tate stood staring at the faded carpet, fingers sliding in and out of holes in his cardigan. His brows were knit and his shoulders stiff. Even from where he sat, Ben could see that they were shaking. Tate flicked his eyes in his therapist's direction, and Ben's breath caught at the sheer desperation and pleading that swam in them. His previously hard expression softened a touch, as he sighed and tried to explain more gently.  
"Tate," he began.  
The boy shook his head, loose curls swaying. He stepped forward, head still dancing side to side, until the sofa dug into his calves.  
"Mr Harmon," Tate stooped his back "it has to be you. I need your help." He leant in closer, ducking to the side slightly putting mere millimetres between his mouth and Ben's ear.  
"I need you to fix me, Doctor."  
Ben drew in his lower lip and inhaled, thoughts clouded and dank. He lifted a hand and placed it on Tate's cheek, fully intending to offer some kind words before pushing the boy away. Tate's eyes fluttered as he leaned in to the touch. A man's hand, calloused and consuming. He lifted a leg and curled it on the sofa, the other swinging directly after until he was perched on Ben's knees. The elder of the two looked unsure, eyes scattered around the sockets, uncertain where to land. Tate took the initiative and placed a tentative, purely pubescent kiss where stubble gave way to supple skin. Ben's second hand rose to mirror the first, shifting the boy's face centimetres where older, more experienced lips were full against red ones that trembled. The therapist let out the breath he had been holding through his nostrils, spurring the youth on his lap to encircle his arms around his doctor's neck and press in closer. The kiss was deepened by both parties; Ben all tongue and intrusion, Tate answering with snagging teeth and eagerness. The rolling tape recorder was forgotten as Ben moaned into the younger mouth, hands now snaking into silken tresses. Tate's unoccupied hands worked their ways between the flush bodies to pop buttons and work zippers. He dug in to both denim barriers, fingers carding over elastic waistbands and dipping behind them. He choked when his digits traced Ben, and he pulled back. Tate was still grimly pale but Ben's face was peppered with the pink of current arousal and the grey of impending regret. Ben reached down and tugged himself out of his briefs, and raised an eyebrow that invited Tate to do the same. The invitation was readily taken, and soon their mouths met once more and rough fingers and smooth palms melted with mounds of flesh in between. Tate whimpered deep in his throat, a sound that would have been missed if it weren't being listened for, and Ben took this as an instruction to move. The elder rolled his hips upwards, smirking to himself when a slender arm flew around his back and fingers dug in to his shoulder. Tate's head lolled back as he reciprocated the motion and milled down. His features were tight across his face, Adam's apple high in his throat. Ben moved again, fiercer, more forceful and Tate crashed his face into Ben's neck, breath sharp and body tense. The pace picked up, both men playing their part well. Ben moved his mouth to the youth's ear, and whispered hushed words of regard and encouragement. He slid his free arm under Tate's ass, lifting him and bringing him closer. All the while, the boy began to whine, quietly at first, before the noise broke into faltered gasps.  
Ben grazed his ear, teeth sinking in to the lobe. "Now, Tate."  
Tate broke with a shattered cry, his frame violently quivering and his voice catching and coarse. He leaned in to Ben as his breath trailed off, bringing the elder over with a hiss. For the moments that followed, both struggled to catch the breath. Ben tossed his head back against the sofa, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. A shrill ring made them both start.  
_"Viv calling..."_  
Ben rose suddenly, casting Tate off his lap and on to the floor.  
"You have to leave."  
"But Mr Harmo-"  
"NOW, Tate. I'm not asking you. I want you out of my house. This was a mistake."  
Tate gaped at him, fingers twitching against the dusty carpet.  
"I'm referring you to Dr. Schoenbaum and you _will go._" Ben shot at him, words underlined with finality. "We're finished here. I can't have you in this house."  
The young face darkened, overcast with a menace and a threat. Tate tucked himself in and rose.  
"Sure, Mr. Harmon." He spat, spinning on his heel. He cast open the main door, but did not leave. After a few seconds, he peered in to the adjacent room where Ben was hunched over, folded in on himself while his fingers scratched along his scalp, slammed it again and started up the stairs to Violet's room.


End file.
